Ed Lacy - Sin In Their Blood

She stared at me for what seemed a long time, her dark brown face rigid as a mask. Only her eyes moved, or seemed to move as they cut through me. Finally she said, “You're not a cop?”

“No. I used to be and.... Look, I know he killed them, and I think you do too—knew it when you took your time calling the police. Tell me why he did it and I can send him up. I think you want that, too.”

“Don't be foolish, son. You'll never send Mr. Saxton up, not in this town. My, listen to me, even now I call him mister!”

“Why not? You said that once before, in the Wilson kitchen, that's why I'm here.”

She didn't answer. We sat there for a moment, the quiet of the kitchen heavy upon us, broken only by the ticking of an old wall clock. I sat there, waiting, smelling the stale odors of recent meals, as she decided whether to trust me or not. She asked, “You hate Sax-ton real bad?”

“It isn't hate. I'm fed up with his kind, that's all.”

Her eyes studied mine and I tried not to look away, began counting the wrinkles around her eyes. I said, “Why not tell me what you know, Mrs. Samuels, let me decide if I can convict Saxton?”

She said softly, “You keep calling me Mrs. Maybe you will do something. It was a lynching.... Henry Wilson was a colored man.”

“What?” I must have shouted my surprise, the kitchen filled with the sound, echoed it.

“I shouldn't have told you, you act like it was a crime,” she said.

“It's... it's something I never thought of. You sure of this?”

“Sure I'm sure, sure as can be. Henry was one of these very light ones, more white in him than colored. See him around whites and you'd never think of him being colored. But see him around Negroes and you just naturally knows he's colored. Henry was passing. Well, that was his little red wagon and he was pulling it. I don't blame nobody for trying to escape. Me, I'm too dark to run from that old jim-crow bird. So I tries to live the best I can. More our folks stood up for themselves, we'd...”

“Take it slow. Henry ever tell you this?”

“'Course not! But I knew. And he knew I knew. There was nothing to tell or talk about.”

“You think his wife...?”

“Miss Beatrice knew. I kept house for the Saxtons since 1938. She was in college then, but she came home weekends. This was the old house over on Ridge Street. She lived there with Mr. Saxton. Henry Wilson was in the same college too, working his way through, and she took a real liking to him. Started bringing him over for supper. Miss Beatrice was in love, you can tell when a gal is in love. Of course, soon as I laid eyes on Henry, I knew.”

“You tell her?”

“What was there to tell? You think being colored meant he was no good or...?”

“I didn't mean that. They were in school—what happened?”

“One day she come home all sick, in bed for near two weeks. And after that day Henry don't come around no more. I knows what happen all right, he told her about hisself. Her soul hurt. Even old doc say he can't find no reason why she sick.”

“When was this?”

“About nineteen hundred and forty—in the Spring. Then I hear Henry go away during summer, get hisself work in another town. Never even send her a card. All time Miss Beatrice is full of misery, nervous. Mr. Sax-ton worried about her, keep sending her to doctors. No doc can help lovesickness.”

The old woman stopped, as if lost in thought. She pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, lit one without offering me any. “School start in Fall and Miss Beatrice begin phone him every day. Then, weeks go by, Henry come over to the house once again. Late in the evening and they thought I'd gone on home. But I was dozing in the kitchen, waiting for some bread dough to rise. Want to bake that night. I hear Miss Beatrice cry and she say, 'What you mean it won't work out? Why don't you give me the chance to decide that, to try it? Henry, don't put me out your life.... I'll go to pieces.' I heard that, then they both crying and kissing, make up.”

“That's what you heard—those exact words?” I asked, thinking she'd have to have some memory.

She looked at me angrily. “You think I'm a liar? That's what I hear, I never forget it. I like Miss Beatrice, she good... for a white woman. And I sit in the kitchen, think, 'Best they marry before she moons herself to death. He can pass and anyway, being colored ain't no disease.' Well, all rest of that year and the next they see each other like before and Miss Beatrice all fine and glowing again. Way I hear it, they going to wait till Henry graduates, then get married. Mr. Saxton, he likes Henry, all for it.”

She got up, knocked the ashes from her cigarette into the sink, sat down again. “Henry never graduate—war come. He drafted. Miss Beatrice almost crazy again. Mr. Saxton he so busy making money he didn't notice it much, but that girl sure nervous. Next I hear Mr. Henry is wounded and coming home and Miss Beatrice tell me she glad, she has him again. He wasn't wounded bad and soon he's out of the army and they marry. Saxton take Henry into the factory and I hear he do very good. Soon they move into the new house, Mr. Saxton, he gets himself an apartment. I go with them. Things run smooth as silk. Then about three-four months ago the letter come. This....”

“What letter?”

“Mr. Henry got hisself elected to some committee, and his picture in the paper. One night he comes in all upset. I got good ears and they whisper but I hear plain: the letter is from some cracker doctor down in Georgia where Mr. Henry was born, say he recognize him and want money. He and Miss Beatrice discuss what they should do. That's all.”

“That's all? What happened after that, did they pay?”

She shook her head. “No. They say they going to wait till they hear again. Mr. Henry has no folks and he say he don't believe doctor could recognize him— doc last seen him when he was a young boy. They don't hear no more. That the end of it.”

“Where's the letter now?” I asked.

“Lost. One day he asks Miss Beatrice if she seen the letter, he can't find it. They look and she say not to worry, probably destroyed or lost, to forget it.”

“Any idea when that was—when the letter was missing?”

She sent out a cloud of smoke, pursed her thin lips as if thinking aloud. “I'd say about two months ago... week or two after they first get letter.”

I drummed on the white metal tabletop with my fingernails. It added up. Saxton got hold of the letter, started working on the murder at once. Two months ago was when he purchased the cabin—in Henry Wilson's name. I asked, “You remember the name of this place in Georgia, of the doctor?”

“Never did hear name of place. Doctor was called Snell, I think.”

“Snell. Sure about that?”

“I'm sure.”

I stood up. “Thanks a lot, Mrs. Samuels. Think this is what I've been looking for. Don't tell anyone else about this. It's important to keep it a secret.”

“What you going to do?” she asked, her voice weary. She went over to the sink and held the cigarette under the dripping faucet, threw the butt into a paper bag full of garbage. “Suppose it all comes out, what good will it do? This town ain't too bad for colored, but it still ain't good. What town is? You think any jury convict big-shot Mr. Saxton for killing his sister and her Negro husband? Naw, he only get off. That be worse, his getting off. Why I never tell police anything.”

“Maybe he won't get off. You know the old saying, more than one way to skin a cat. Let me think about it. Did Saxton take a trip in the last two months? Go out of town for a couple of days?”

“Not that I know of. Always around.”

“Not even a business trip?”

“He ain't left town in years.”

“Okay. Remember, we never had this conversation.” I took out my wallet, removed a tenspot. “Here's for the time you lost and...”

“Put your money away, son,” she said gently, her voice full of dignity. “You think you can do some good? A jury will...”

“Forget about a jury. Forget everything and let me handle it. I think I can make the murders stick—on Saxton. Be around to see you again in a few days. The most important thing we can do to get Saxton—is keep quiet. Not a word of this, even to your son or...”

“Ain't got a son, or anybody else. I ain't talked about it before, why I talk now? What's your name again?”

“Ranzino. Matt Ranzino.”

“Funny sounding name. You Italian?”

“Yeah. Call me Matt, that isn't funny.”

“Good name. My husband named Mathew and he was a good man. Cook on a ship. Loved the water, even when he come back from a trip, we'd rent a boat and spend all day fishing, him telling me about places he been. He on a tanker that went down. Back in nineteen hundred and thirty-one. On a Thursday morning, right out in the goddamn Pacific. He drowned two thousand miles away from me. I never been same since....”

“Well—sorry to hear about it. I have to run. Sit tight till you hear from me again.”

I went out, took a cab to Max's place. I tried not to think of Saxton... there wasn't much to think about, except how rotten he was, from his heart. I thought about the old woman. Looking at her you'd never think she'd known love and romance. But she and her Mathew must have had something, the way she said it. Something like Mady and I should have.... I looked at my watch. It was nearly one and I had to be back by three to get Joe's call. I told the cabbie to drive me to a camera store I remembered.

I put down nearly all my cash—a hundred and twenty bucks—as a deposit on the rental of a candid camera, a developing kit, a flash attachment, and some infra-red film and bulbs. When I finally got to the precinct house, the desk sergeant told me Max was out to lunch. “Over at the Roma. Captain Daniels likes that Eyetie food—and so does his stomach.”

The Roma was an old restaurant, not much to look at, but real food and expensive. As I passed the big potted plants at the door and stepped inside, I walked smack into Tops Anderson and two loudly dressed hoods. Tops had just paid his tab. He was sober and gave me a big grin, then gave the hoods one of these catch-this-it's-going-to-be-good glances. The punks grinned slightly. They were both small and dapper, spent a lot of time on their clothes and slick brushed hair. Tops said, “Will you look what we have here, the Wop sprinter! Best alley runner in town.”

“Cut it,” I said looking for a place to put the camera down. If I busted it, I'd not only be out the deposit, but Joe's plans couldn't wait.

“What if I don't?” Tops said like a kid, moving behind me, blocking the door. “Ain't no alley here for you to do your Gone-with-the-wind act.”

The hoods showed their delight with this piece of sharp wit. I started for the nearest table, to put the camera case down, when Tops slapped me across the side of my face. It wasn't much of a slap, I was going away from it, and the cashier looked at the headwaiter who came over and one of the punks snarled something at him.

I put the camera down gently, picked up a napkin and started to wrap it around my right fist, when Tops said, “Guess you didn't run fast enough—not a bad black eye. I'm going to match it!” and he came at me. He was a brawler and came in wide open—I slipped the obvious right and crossed my left to his nose. It was the first solid punch I'd landed in a hell of a long time and it felt good... it broke his nose. Ducking under his left I split his eye open with a short right and his face was covered with blood. Tops stupidly raised both his hands to his bloody puss, as some women screamed, and I banged him in the guts so hard the food he'd just eaten came bursting out of his open, gasping mouth, as he went down. Only a little of it sprayed on me— good old Matt, the mess target!